Yours
by red day dawning
Summary: After unexpectedly recovering from the battle in the morgue at St. Mungo's, Remus tries to come to terms with his losses. Until Hermione Granger tells him that Severus Snape is alive… Warnings: m/m slash sex; angst


**Yours**

**Disclaimer:** J.K.Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner Brothers own the rights to the Harry Potter characters and settings. The author makes no profit with this writing. It is intended for entertainment purposes.

**Rating: **MA

**Pairings:** Severus Snape/Remus Lupin

**Synopsis: **After unexpectedly recovering from the battle in the morgue at St. Mungo's, Remus tries to come to terms with his losses. Until Hermione Granger tells him that Severus Snape is alive…

**Warnings:** m/m slash sex described. Angst.

**Yours**

_The life that I have  
Is all that I have  
And the life that I have Is yours  
The love that I have  
Of the life that I have Is yours and yours and yours.  
A sleep I shall have  
A rest I shall have  
Yet death will be but a pause  
For the peace of my years In the long green grass  
Will be yours and yours and yours._  
- Leo Marks -

_Walking alone across wide and empty moors. Bleak winter weather: cold winds that sear through flesh, harsh as your anger, potent as your lust. Grey winter skies, luminescent, pellucid, purity in the fading pearly light. A flavour of sorrow in the air, like the taste of cold metal in the back of the throat._

_Always longing, this terrible longing, for you._

* * *

Life, such as it was, was unexpectedly returned to me. Initially diagnosed as dead, I woke up in the cold morgue at St. Mungo's, surrounded by far too many corpses. Some of the draped bodies seemed sadly small. I didn't dare move the fabric covering them: I dreaded what I might see.

Embarrassed and contrite staff quickly ushered me up to the wards for medical examination; there, the healers reached consensus, declaring that in the absence of silver, werewolves were simply not that easy to kill. This failed to reassure – I was beyond comfort.

Upon discovering that Tonks had died during the final battle, I surprised myself by feeling very little grief – some remorse, some shame, but little grief. The knowledge that I had been pushed into a relationship while lost and disoriented following your betrayals - that I had never really wanted her- tainted any genuine and heartfelt grief I might feel. Her reaction to discovering that the relationship was one-sided was painful for all involved - it ended with her pregnant with another man's baby, hysterically declaring that she had only ever cared for me. It had been messy and painful. I merely felt the sorrow that anyone might be expected to feel after the death of a bright, talented young woman, newly a mother.

Other deaths actually hit me harder – the tragic loss of Fred Weasley, the sad deaths of several young bright students. And you. Your death. Your death hits me hard, harder than I could ever have imagined.

And life goes on, inexorable; something to be endured.

* * *

Harry's post-battle vindication of your actions, including the killing of Dumbledore, offered surprisingly little consolation. All your betrayals faded with the overwhelming impact of your death. Your absence: a great emptiness deep within me, gnawing away like a relentless cancer; an always aching hollow. The twin despairs: '_You're gone forever_' and '_you did not love me_' echoed and re-echoed within that abyss.

I begin to wonder if I have lost some essential life-force during the time I was diagnosed as dead; some component vital to life, more necessary than any innate compulsion to breathe. Night after night I wake with salty tears drying on my face; night after night I dream of the last two times I saw you: the night you killed Dumbledore, and the night before that - the night you told me that our relationship was finished, that you could no longer pretend any feeling for me. That you were now involved with Yaxley. Yaxley, for fuck's sake!

And night after night I wake, salty trails down my face. Wishing I could see you again; be with you again; touch you again. Wishing you really were here.

The days pass by slowly. Perhaps, sometime in the future, I will one day spend a day without thinking of you. Memories of you define my days: remembering your profile, the way your hair hung across your face, your loving, sex with you – although what we did together cannot be encompassed by the word sex.

We rutted; we fucked; we pounded into and through each other; we tasted and swallowed and licked until our bellies were full; we howled out fiercely blazing joy; we made love so deep and sweet we were drowned and lost forever. Or I was lost forever.

* * *

Harry, Hermione and Ron visit me regularly, Apparating to my isolated rural cottage on the moors. I cannot find it within myself to care overly much. A polite, detached façade, meaningless chat and endless cups of tea fill the time. It seems that only Hermione is not fooled by my appearance of contentment: my shield of polite detachment fails with her. Nonetheless, I can only hope my habitual practice of distancing myself from others will thwart her concerns.

I suppose I should have realized that this would not work with Hermione. The day after the latest visit from the three friends, I hear the familiar crack of some one Apparating nearby. I briefly hope it might be some crazed Death Eater bent on vengeance; the sound of knocking at the front door shatters these idle fantasies. Death Eaters do not knock with such polite diffidence.

"He is alive, I just know it, Remus." Hermione enthusiastically declares, ticking the relevant points off on her fingers. "Consider the facts: first of all, his body was never actually recovered, it simply vanished; secondly, we know none of the Death Eaters could have removed the body as the Shrieking Shack wasn't entered after Voldemort left; thirdly, Snape's portrait never appeared in the Headmaster's office and most significantly, when we ask Professor Dumbledore about Professor Snape, he just smiles beatifically, twinkles and says 'I always hoped Severus might one day have the hope of a new life,' and refuses to say anything further."

"Yes, that does sound rather conclusive, Hermione," I whisper.

My voice seems to have faded and dimmed; my muscles dissolve into water. Hermione's insistent tones seem to swirl into the background; I feel as though I might faint.

Hermione grasps me firmly by the arm and leads me into my cottage. "I think I'll make a cup of tea," she says anxiously, hovering as I sit in an armchair.

After bringing me a cup of tea, Hermione crouches in front of me. "Remus," she says hesitantly, "I thought you ought to know the truth – it's important that you know the truth. And there is no one more likely to find him… Remus, you must help us find him."

Strength seeps back into me with the sweet tea. "Find him?" I ask. "Hermione, if Severus is alive, he probably doesn't want to be found."

"Remus, that was before," Hermione says with determination, "When everyone thought he was Dumbledore's murderer and a traitor. Now that we know better, he should be honoured for his sacrifices and commitments."

_Sacrifices_, I think. _Commitments_.

Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I say firmly, "Hermione, there's no way Severus could not know that he's been exonerated. It's been featured in the Daily Prophet for weeks now. If he's made himself scarce it's probably because he does not want to be found. And don't you think that after all he's done, we should respect his wishes?"

"Remus," she replies, "I'm not just thinking of him. Or even of Harry. I'm worried about you. I think you need to find him."

Feeling as though I've taken a blow to the guts, I reply, "Hermione. Whatever it is that I need, it is not Severus. He is the last thing I need."

Hermione quietly replies: "Remus, I don't think you know what you need."

* * *

One third of a bottle of firewhisky later, I am certain that whatever it was I needed, it was not Severus bloody Snape. And that Hermione, cleverest witch of her generation or not, did not have a bloody clue what she was talking about.

Several glasses of firewhisky after that, I decide that Hermione is quite sweet really, and that Severus is a bloody fine man to have nearby. Especially when a hangover potion will be required.

By the time I am sobbing and explaining to my long-suffering owl, Artemis, that the love of my life is, and always will be, Severus bloody Snape, and that I fear I will never see you again, I am only minutes away from the blessed oblivion of open-mouthed, snoring, drunken sleep.

On waking in the morning I am only grateful that I decided to get drunk on my own, without witnesses, and certain that I never really want to drink that much again.

* * *

A few days later, I hear the sound of knocking at my door. Assuming it is Hermione, returning out of concern for my state of mind, or perhaps to harass and harangue me again, I fling the door open abruptly, saying "Hermione, while I appreciate…" My words fade away into shocked silence as I see you, that familiar dark form straight from my dreams and nightmares, standing here on my doorstep.

"Severus," I whisper hoarsely.

"Are you going to let me come inside, Lupin?" you ask, acidly.

I step back from the door, a wordless invitation to enter. You pass me, close but not touching. A sudden desire to flee overwhelms me; I want to run far, far away, and not have to face the questions, the answers, the pain, the disruption of my familiar numb grief. The only thing that keeps me from fleeing is the certainty that if I run, I will never have this chance again – you will not approach me a second time.

We sit at the kitchen table, a parody of former happier times. My voice has abandoned me; my sense has abandoned me – all I can do is sit and stare at you, my heart pounding painfully.

You look down at your clasped hands resting on the tabletop. I wonder if either of us will ever speak. Words seem meaningless; hollow sounds echoing from empty mouths.

* * *

Finally you speak. My heart is beating so loudly that I wonder if I will be able to hear your words. "I thought you were dead," you say.

I laugh - an abrupt ugly sound. "You thought I was dead! Severus, I'm not the one who disappeared. The papers were full of my miraculous recovery – the headlines alone would have informed you of my survival."

"Ah yes. After I had 'disappeared' I read the headlines. 'Werewolf hero survives as tragic widower.' 'Remus Lupin survives despite tragic loss.' 'Can our brave hero continue without the love of his life?'"

The venom in my voice surprises even me. "You have no right to speak to me of Tonks. None at all. You made it entirely clear that our relationship was over."

You look strangely taken aback, as though my anger surprises you. You lick your lips and I have to look away. I do not want to think about your lips, your tongue, your mouth.

"Remus," you say quietly, and then stop. "Remus," you repeat, your voice a rasping whisper, "Surely you know, surely you have realized – I only ended things between us because I knew that after… Albus's death, I could not go to Him revealing any feelings for you. He would have forced me to… make you a Death Eater. If you didn't agree to help Him, He would have killed you. Or made me kill you, or hurt you… Remus, you must know, that's the only reason…"

"And Yaxley?" I ask, my voice harsh in my ears.

"_Yaxley_!" you snort, "I never had the slightest interest in bloody Yaxley. Never touched him, for Merlin's sake, never even thought about touching him. I only ever wanted you… but I couldn't endanger you…"

"Endanger me?" I whisper, incredulous. It is too much, that you have come here after you've destroyed me, and speak of not wanting to endanger me. It is just too much.

"Shut up!" I scream. And you do. You look at me. There are no words, there is nothing to say; my heart has swollen too large, too pained for words.

I stand up and push away the table between us and suddenly I am on my knees tearing your trousers open and pulling your cock free and already it is starting to harden, and I'm hardening too, hardening and aching, and I take you into my mouth, swallowing you to the root, desperate for the taste of you, and then I drag you up and bend you over the table, arse bare and legs spread, and I'm inside you, and I can't recall preparing you but my cock is smoothly thrusting in out and deeper still, and it is so good, so good to be in you. All the light and sound in the universe is roaring through me, and there is nothing but light and the feel of my cock deep in you, and the feel of you, tightening around me as you're coming and coming and crying out loud, and I'm coming and screaming too.

I rest my head against your back – it's hard to catch my breath because I'm almost weeping, and you turn and take me in your arms, your hands cradling my head and you kiss me.

You're kissing me like you love me, like you will always love me and it's suddenly too overwhelming, too much. "Severus, I can't…" I begin to weep, great shuddering sobs that pound and howl out of my chest, "I can't…" I cry, and I simply turn and flee, pulling my clothes back on as I run. I hear you call my name, but it's too much, and I simply run.

* * *

The moors are cold and bleak that night, the frosty heart of winter: my hands and feet feel as though they are burning in the cold. I find a little sheep-fold, where fodder is stored, and after the sun goes down, I curl up in the hay to sleep. Surprisingly I do sleep, uninterrupted by dreams; in the morning, the only salt traces lingering on my cheeks are from my earlier tears.

Stretching in the early dawn light, going home feels like the thing to do, although the prospect of returning to my home, where you've been so briefly, and which you have now left, is sharp, flaring agony. The thought that you have been there, and now you are gone… Gone, again.

Shaking my head a little, I resolve not to think of it. I determine to go home, and find something to eat, and simply try to breathe. Breathing seems enough of a challenge on this day.

* * *

The cottage feels unexpectedly warm when I enter. Looking at the fireplace, I see that the fire has been burning all night, and is burning still. I frown, wondering what sort of charm could have been laid upon it to make a fire burn so steadily all night long. Even the teapot feels warm, as though a fresh pot has been recently brewed. I make myself a cup of tea and wander into the bedroom, frowning at the disruption caused by these small mysteries in my home. It seems easier to think about warm teapots and unknown fireplace charms, than to think about you.

In my bedroom, there you lie, entangled in blankets and fast asleep. I stand still, disbelieving, simply staring at you; I move closer and closer, simply staring at you.

You. Alive. Here in my bed. Your eyes open, and there are no words, there is simply you.

You.

You, with your eyes now open: eyes of darkest-gem obsidian, sharper than steel, brittle, so easily shattered.

You.

You are looking at me and you open your arms to me, whispering my name, and then there is only love.

With you.

_fin_


End file.
